Royai Week 2017
by rizahawkaye
Summary: This is a collection of works for my favorite week of the year. (-:
1. Day One: Chess

Roy could play the game, and he liked to think he played it well. Hours of matches in the east with Grumman had amounted to a general understanding of how a person could go about winning the game. He recognized winning strategies and was always good at employing them himself when the opportunities arose. He prided himself of the ability to manipulate his side of a chess board, in turn manipulating his opponent's. With pieces, with practice it was easy. Chess was easy, Roy thought. He was so used to the sound of pieces tapping the board, of the feel of cool plastic against his fingertips, though, that he sometimes forgot people played differently when there were no boxes to move through or rules to follow.

"Colonel," Havoc said as he leaned back in his chair and stuffed his arms behind his head. The chime of a clock signaled noon and most of the military personnel in the building began to shuffle out for lunch. Havoc proposed a game when the room had cleared, when he tossed a glance in Riza Hawkeye's direction as she wandered out into the hall, grinned, and said, "That Lieutenant Hawkeye is _something else._ "

"Somewhat out of your league, Havoc," Roy's response was automatic. He didn't lift his eyes from a stack of papers he was flipping through lazily. The offices had quieted aside from the hum of voices through the halls. Afternoon light flooded through the large windows that sat on the back wall and burned Roy's shoulders until he began to sweat. Irritated, he wiped his hand across his forehead.

"I bet I could get her to go out with me," Havoc mused, ignoring his commanding officer's comment. He put his feet up on his desk and tipped backward in his chair. He was still grinning.

"She's your superior. You two can't date." Roy signed on a dotted line, wiped more sweat.

"Okay," Havoc said slowly. "I bet I can get her to _say_ she would go out with me if she could."

Roy snickered and said, "I bet she rejects you."

Havoc spun around in his chair to face his Colonel. He planted his feet on the floor loudly and his eyes narrowed as he said, "I bet she doesn't."

"Havoc," Roy placed his pen down gently and folded his hands over one another to peer over them at his Second Lieutenant. "Out. Of your. League." He felt he'd made a good play, a good move, when Havoc's grin flipped into a frown.

"Yeah?" Havoc retorted. "You would know, Colonel."

"You're playing with the big boys on this one, Havoc," Roy said. "Hawkeye could be out of every man's league and that would just mean she has to settle for the next best thing."

"Which would be you, sir?" Havoc pressed, his words dipped in sarcasm.

Roy sat his chin on his hands. "Precisely."

"Okay, Colonel," Havoc sighed as he turned back to his desk. "If you can get the Lieutenant to say she'd go out with you over me, I'll personally file all your paperwork for the next week."

"Great!" _Check._

"But," Havoc continued. "If I can get her to say she'd go out with me over you, you have to file _my_ paperwork for the next week."

"Deal," Roy said, his confidence flooding the room. He leaned back in his chair and continued to breeze through a stack of papers he'd skipped lunch to skim. Chess was easy, he affirmed. It was especially easy when he had such a sturdy understanding of the players. Roy was sure his Lieutenant would never choose another man over her Colonel, and he was sure Havoc would fumble with his play, miss a signal, and lose.

He was so sure that he didn't even protest the moment Havoc made the first move. He didn't even flinch as Riza re-entered the office with Breda, Falman, and Fuery tailing her. He didn't even raise his eyes to her when she sat down in her seat across from Havoc's and Havoc said, "Hawkeye."

Riza raised an eyebrow at him. "Havoc."

Havoc leaned over the large desk he shared with the Lieutenant, bracing himself on his forearms. He offered a lopsided grin to her, but she didn't return it as he'd hoped. Instead, she sent nervous glances to the other men at the table who only shrugged their shoulders at her.

"If you could date any guy in this room," Havoc started. "Who would it be?"

Roy straightened in his chair. He lifted his chin in preparation for his most loyal subordinate's obvious answer. Knowing the game, knowing the players. _Checkmate_ , he thought to himself. However, when Hawkeye deadpanned with, "Fuery," Roy's jaw dropped and he was sure everyone in the room could hear his confidence shattering as it hit the floor.

"F-Fuery?" Havoc choked.

"Or Falman," Riza mused, touching a finger to her chin.

"Falman!? He's, like, old!" Havoc gestured to Falman, his palms up as if he were presenting Falman's age on a platter.

"Kind of rude, Havoc," Falman pouted.

"He's kind," Riza said, coming to Falman's aid. "Fuery's smart. As a matter of fact, Breda is interesting. He's a contender, too, I guess."

Fuery blushed and looked down at his lap, Breda shot Havoc a look, and Falman's eyes flickered nervously to his Colonel.

Before Havoc could retort, Roy's voice rose, "Choose between me or Havoc." He was standing behind his desk with his palms pressed firmly on its surface. Riza swallowed a chuckle when she laid her eyes on his face, his eyes telling her she'd damaged his fragile ego.

"Neither," she shifted in her seat, playing the game different than Roy had anticipated. He could feel her enjoying herself, he noticed the way the corners of her mouth pulled upward into an almost-smile. He decided that he didn't like the way Havoc had talked about her earlier that afternoon.

"You have to choose one," Havoc pointed at her.

"Okay," she said. "You, Havoc."

"I'm your last choice!?" Roy almost fell forward over his desk.

"Yes!" Havoc clapped his hands and punched the air. "It's because I'm taller than the Colonel, isn't it? Or because I'm better with guns? We would have a lot to talk about, Hawkeye."

"We sure would, Havoc," Riza said, completely uninterested in either thing Havoc had mentioned.

Roy seated himself slowly, avoiding eye contact with a radiant Havoc and fighting the flush on his face. His subordinates must have felt their Colonel's sour mood because the rest of the day went by in an uninterrupted silence. Roy continued to scoop sweat off his brow, his mind racing as he replayed the game in his head and wondered how he'd lost. As Havoc sauntered forward to Roy's desk when the clock chimed 5:00, however, Roy was suddenly aware that he'd made no mistakes in his moves, or his wager. His eyes skipped to Riza before settling on his Second Lieutenant.

"Colonel," Havoc plopped papers on Roy's desk. "These are for you. I'm going to go get a drink." He spun around on his heel as he stuck an unlit cigarette between his teeth. He stopped by Riza's side of their shared desk and tapped it with his knuckles. "Wanna join me, Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

"Havoc," Roy and Riza echoed one another. "Don't press your luck," Riza said.

"Suit yourself," Havoc shrugged. "You guys wanna come?"

"Gladly," Breda responded, standing from his seat and gesturing for Falman and Fuery to follow.

"Sure," Falman said.

"Okay, but I'm not much of a drinker," Fuery shoved his paperwork into a neat pile in the middle of the desk and joined the other men as they started down the hall for the exit to their building. Roy didn't even wait until they were out of earshot before he grudgingly said, "You can leave, too, Lieutenant Hawkeye."

"Jealousy doesn't look good on you, sir," she said.

"Must run in the family," Roy mumbled.

"What, sir?" Riza asked, turning her head toward him. "Jealousy?"

"This infuriating ability to gauge, strategize, and win. It must run in your family, Hawkeye." Roy tried not to sound aggravated as he said it, but he did and it satisfied her. He watched her smile at him, tip her head and say, "I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

He wasn't sure if he wanted to stride across the room and kiss her, or if he wanted to dip under his desk and pretend she weren't there. She turned back to her work, as diligent as ever, and Roy studied the way her hand moved, the way her bangs fell in her face.

"You should get back to work, sir," Riza said, causing Roy to rip his eyes off her and plant them on his desktop.

"You wouldn't really have chosen Fuery over me, yeah?" He asked as he spread papers out in front of him and scanned a few pages with his eyes.

"I might not have if you hadn't bet Havoc on it," she responded. "You play games with Grumman, sir, not me."

"You're good at games," Roy said. "You sure played me."

"I'd do it again, sir," Riza said.

"I'm sure you would," Roy sighed. "I guess I deserved it."

"It isn't so much that you deserved it, sir," Riza said. "Havoc deserved it too, but you bore the brunt of the loss because I had more fun watching you lose than I would have watching Havoc lose." She smiled at him again and Roy felt his heart thump against his ribs. He heard Havoc say, "That Lieutenant Hawkeye is _something else,_ " in his head and he knew he agreed, but he also knew he wished Havoc hadn't noticed.

"Go easy on me, would you?" He closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Sir," Riza said, her voice steady. "Checkmate."

"Yeah, yeah," Roy groaned. His eyes opened as he heard her move, and he watched her walk toward him. She placed her finished paperwork on the corner of his desk and grabbed half of what Havoc had left for him. "Lieutenant?"

"I suppose I'll help you through these, sir," she said. "I am your assistant and whatever work doesn't get done around here will surely reflect poorly on me."

"Surely," he said, smiling to himself. Minutes passed by before he muttered, "Please shoot Havoc down when the opportunity arises."

"But sir," Riza said. "We have so much in _common_."

Roy couldn't help but laugh.


	2. Day Two: Black Tie

Roy stalls as Riza says to him, "Let's not have a wedding." He's bent over his small dining table sipping at a cup of coffee while his eyes flit over some government document he was surely not supposed to take home with him. She's cross-legged in front of him, her chest falling and rising in a steady rhythm that pumps warmth into him. The cool early-morning sunlight is trickling through the high windows of his palace and falling neatly over his companion's form, basking her in light and illuminating her gentle features. "Let's just get those papers signed," she deadpans, not even handing him a glance from her place across from him.

He raises his face to her, shrugs a brow, and says, "It's pretty important for the Führer to have a wedding. Y'know, for appearances. We've always been two to care about appearances, haven't we?" He says, half-joking, though there is weight to his words. They've spent decades fretting over appearances, and pushing their desires aside for them. It's for this reason that Roy isn't surprised when Riza doesn't meet his eyes with her own. He sighs and tries to amend himself with, "Why the sudden aversion to weddings?"

"Not weddings in general," she replies, her voice dry. "Military weddings."

"So you don't want a military wedding," he says. "But you're marrying the Führer."

"I'm marrying Roy Mustang," she corrects him as she finally sets her amber eyes on his face. He grins at her as the words leave her lips but she doesn't smile back at him. "The military has been a part of everything we've done since Ishbal," she continues. "I'd like this to be the one thing in our life together that isn't marred by blue jackets, and boots."

Roy sits back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. He forces a breath out slowly, so she can hear it, and she pulls her eyes off him to re-focus on a newspaper splayed out below her. He steals a moment to graze his eyes over her and tries to ignore her bare legs crossed over one another in a way that makes the shirt ( _his_ shirt, he notes) she's wearing ride up past her thighs. He pretends he doesn't notice the flutter of her lashes when she blinks, and he's attempting to forget that she isn't wearing pants when he squeaks out, "Okay."

"We can trade the blue jacket for a black tie, and the boots for dress shoes," he says, his head dipping down to hover over his document again.

"You're going to give in that easily?" She asks him, unconvinced. Her stern veil begins to falter, and he can hear the disbelief in her voice. He smiles to the tabletop.

"Sure," he says as he signs his name across the bottom of a page. "Though if you were hoping you'd have to sway me, I can retract my statement until you felt you've earned it."

"No need," she says. "You don't want a military wedding either, do you?"

Roy was imagining Riza setting herself on his lap, wrapping her long legs around him to bribe him into conceding. The fun of his fantasy was wiped away with her question, however. He sets his pen down and rubs the back of his head.

"So perceptive," he says, disappointment heavy in his voice. "I was hoping this would have been more..."

"You have a press briefing in two hours," she tells him. "I don't have time to straddle you on your chair." She peers up at him through her blonde bangs, wholly unamused. Her eyes tell him she's expecting an answer to her question.

"I want something more personal, sure," he says, giving in. "I think I'd look good in a black tie."

"Mm," Riza hummed. "Perhaps you would."

Roy didn't try to fight his smug smile as it made a home on his face. "From 'roommate' to 'Mr. Mustang' to 'Major' to 'Colonel' to 'General' to 'Führer,'" he trails off and beams at the way Riza's lips curl into a small smile against her will. He reaches across the table and places a hand over her paper to pull her attention toward him. When she looks up at him, his heart leaps. "I'm ready for this new title, all others be damned."

Roy knows he won her over when she leans forward to place a chaste kiss on his lips, small smile still intact. She tries to pull away almost as fast as she made contact with him, but Roy winds his fingers in her hair and holds her in place steadily as he parts her lips with his tongue. She groans against him disapprovingly, and he's sure she's kicking herself for kissing him. He chuckles against her mouth. "I won't be able to concentrate long enough to efficiently work through a press briefing unless you _do_ straddle me on my chair, you know."

"Führer Mustang," she huffs. "You have no self control. If only the people of this country knew what long legs could do to you."

"Sure I do," he says as he releases her and pulls back. " _You_ kissed _me._ Besides," he stops and holds in his breath as she shuffles from her seat to his lap, folding her legs around him and the back of his chair. Her blonde hair cascades down her shoulders and her eyes are already glossed over from the promise of what he would be giving her. "I'm sure there isn't a person in this country who would fault me for being drawn to _you_ , Ms. Hawkeye."

Riza winds her arms around his neck and fits her hips to his. "You hate press briefings," she says. "I'm only trying to give you some incentive to work through another one. I've always done this job, albeit a little differently in the past." Roy would have laughed if she hadn't moved almost imperceptibly, rocking into him, causing his breath to catch in his throat. He runs his hands up her thighs, her torso, under his shirt and over her breasts. He pauses only once to apply pressure between her legs and admire the way her head falls back, and her lips part. "Have you had enough?" She asks him, her face already flushed.

Roy leans into her and places a kiss on her collarbone. "Not quite," he responds. Next to him and through the windows, the people of Central are beginning to stir. He can hear them on the streets, their muffled voices drifting up a few stories into his large dining hall. Still, he holds his soon-to-be-wife in his arms and plants kisses along her shoulder, her neck, her jaw. He smiles against her skin, he smiles into this woman who smells faintly of oil but mostly of every goal he's ever set for himself. He grips her face to pull her down to him, suddenly aching for another kiss. She obliges for a moment but then slowly pushes back.

"We don't have the time to-" She starts, but her words are replaced with soft gasps as Roy's fingers wander into her lacy panties. She sits up instinctively to give him room, her nails clawing at his shoulders. "I'm...supposed to...just straddle you," she huffs at him as he starts working her in slow circles. His heartbeat picks up in his chest every time she pants at him and he relishes the fact that he's able to melt her down with gentle motions instead of harsh snaps of flame.

"Mm," he affirms. He places his free hand on her ass and grips her there tightly. She all but yelps at the contact and her hips buck into him, against him. He grinds his teeth at the feeling, let's out an airy groan. He can't help but be riled up by the caress. He thinks to himself that it's unfair that decades of feeling her on his body, of memorizing all her curves, hasn't made fucking her any easier. His circles between her legs become increasingly frantic as he watches her squirm on him, her hips trying to keep up with his erratic movements.

In an effort to take back some control, Riza's hands retreat from his shoulders to curl under the hem of her shirt. She lifts it off her body in one swift swoop, and Roy's drawn immediately to her breasts. Before he can get to them, though, Riza pushes against his forehead and yanks at his shirt. She pulls it over his head sloppily, causing his hand to pull away from her, his hair to ruffle and look more unkempt than it had when he had just wandered into his kitchen that morning. She smirks at him as she takes his wrist in her hand and plants a kiss to his palm.

"It's okay to let me rule over _you_ sometimes," Roy pouts at her, but his complaint is lost to the feeling of her fumbling with his boxers. She manages to shuffle them down on his thighs far enough to wrap her fingers around the length of him, and his breath hitches audibly in his throat. She begins to stroke him, and he's faltering with every glide of her palm against his skin. It takes more self-control than he thought he had to keep from crashing with her onto the floor and fucking her until she forgot her name.

"Riza," he warns. She knows the tone, knows that when he's hissing at her from behind clenched teeth it means he's teetering. Still, her head dives down and she kisses his jaw, nips at his ear. She's playing with him, he knows. He runs his hands over her back, feels her scar and hurriedly moves to cradling her hips instead. Even now, even in the midst of what he's sharing with her, he's not capable of brushing the skin he mangled. His head falls back as he refocuses on what he's feeling, but Riza cups his face in her hands and pulls him close.

"Führer," she breathes into his ear. It's a distraction, it's a taunt. The sound of his rank coming off her tongue in this setting elicits a moan from him that's almost primal. She's reminding him that the scars are why they're here, and she's reminding him that he's Führer, and every step he's taken from beginning to end has led him to this moment. She tips forward on him, dragging herself over his length.

"Okay," Roy growls. "Okay, Riza." He pulls her up just enough to take control, and she's helpful as he guides himself into her. She sits her full weight on him, expecting to move in a way she sees fit, but Roy is quick to lift her up and set her back flush against his tabletop. He grabs her hands in his, mutters, "A black tie would come in handy right about now," and pulls out of her only to move as slowly as he can manage back in.

"Ah," Riza whimpers at him. He feels her body tense and her fingers lace into his above her head. He wants to do more, he wants to move more, but he's so sure she'll regain her authority if he lets her hands loose. "Roy."

He touches his forehead to hers and groans. His name is just as maddening to hear as his rank.

His pace picks up, he frees his fingers from hers and grasps her wrists in one hand while his other hand travels down to where he knows she's aching for him. It doesn't take much from him to push her over the edge, and only a minute or two pass before she's panting out his name and he's slowed himself down enough to help her through her orgasm.

"Now I have a press briefing in an hour-and-a-half," he teases her. She's still catching her breath, though, and he doesn't have time to stop himself before he fixates on the scar that's nestled into the side of her neck. He concentrates on it as it pulses with her heartbeat. He reaches up to trace it with his fingers, and he feels her warmth, her life, beating into him through his fingertips.

"Führer," she reminds him again.

"Dammit," he says. He anchors her hips down with his hands and he drives himself into her faster than he had before. She wraps her legs around him and tilts her pelvis up to take him in fully and he's grateful for the gesture as he slips over the edge. He slumps forward on her as he rides his own wave of pleasure. Her free hands had migrated from the table to his biceps, where they had dug red lines into his soft skin.

"Sorry," Riza says, a little winded. She's eyeing his arms and trying to rub the irritation out of them.

Roy responds with a whispered, "I love you."

"So, a black tie?" She asks him, her fingers combing through his hair. "You can wear it once to the wedding, and then do whatever with it afterward."

"Absolutely," he says, tilting his chin up to look at her. "I have a few other uses for such a thing in mind."

"I'm sure you do."


	3. Day Three: Catalyst

Roy shifts uncomfortably in the back seat of his newly issued military vehicle. He grumbles to himself about how stuffed he feels seated between Falman and Fuery. He knew it would be this way, and he mentally makes a note to mention his discomfort to his Colonel when given the chance. He had been against this thing, opting for an older model until he was informed by a member of his new administration that this particular vehicle is the "safest on the market." Roy had thought to himself that it was also the ugliest, but Colonel Hawkeye had insisted upon its use. "But it's completely black and shaped like a banana," he had whined to her. "Just approve the damn cars, sir," she had told him, and so he did. He bought a case of them on the government's dime, albeit reluctantly.

Führer Mustang is a powerful man, but he is not a stupid one, and making a personal safety decision that directly contradicts the opinion of his Colonel was something a stupid man would do.

Roy rolls his head back against his seat and groans. He feels as though his thighs are marinating in sweat against a faux leather that does nothing to buffer the transfer of heat from the sun to the seats to his body. I'm the Führer, he thinks to himself, growing increasingly aggravated by the number of people in his car _breathing_ and eating up his air. "It shouldn't take three cars of armed men to get me to Colonel Hawkeye's front door," he says aloud.

"Führer," Havoc, Roy's chauffeur-slash-bodyguard-slash-best friend, turns his head to peer at Roy through the rear view mirror. "I still feel like having you out during the day of your inauguration is only the slightest bit unsafe, and this level of protection is the bare minimum, sir."

"This day is for the Colonel too," Roy says, feeling defensive of his decision to forgo the preliminary dinner party traditionally held in a new Führer's honor. "The Emperor of Xing will be there, sir," an advisor had told him. "We're already acquainted," Roy had replied. "I want to pick my Colonel up for the ceremony itself, I don't want to be holed up in some palace dining hall with swarms of people who care more about their free Amestrian meal than they do about my inauguration."

"With all due respect, sir, can't Colonel Hawkeye escort herself?" Breda asks. He has his elbow on the passenger side door and his gun laying in his lap with his finger resting lightly on the trigger. "It's not like you to treat her like a date or something."

Roy huffs out one chuckle and says, "I'm not treating her like a date, Breda, but this day is for her too."

"Yeah, you've already said so, sir," Havoc says.

"Then stop pressing me about it," Roy snaps as he folds his arms over his chest like a child. "It's happening."

It's all happening, he thinks. His decades of constantly abandoning a life he wanted with a woman he wanted more were finally giving birth to the one thing that would administer to him everything he'd ever craved. He thinks back to Grumman's retirement, to his, "Roy, I'm putting your name in the hat." He thinks back to the announcement, the inadequate car forgotten as he remembers his Colonel's smile, and her soft, "We did it, sir." He would have kissed her then, but there were tears in her eyes and he'd been too caught up with fighting the urge to wipe his thumbs over her cheeks.

"Führer," Havoc says, jerking the car into park and Roy out of his memories. "We're here."

"So we are," Roy says, tipping his head to peer out the window at Riza's shabby apartment complex. She'll be out of there soon, he thinks. "Please get out Faman, I need to breathe."

"Right," Falman says, fumbling with the door. "Sorry, sir."

Roy follows Falman out of the musty car and into the light of the day. He takes a moment to twist his arms behind his back and shake out the kinks in his joints before setting a foot on the first step up a short staircase.

"It might be unsafe, sir." Havoc juts his arm out in front of Roy, who just swats him away.

"You almost clotheslined me, Havoc, and this is Hawkeye," Roy tells him. "I'll be back in a minute, you can wait that long for me. I'm just going to pick her up."

Havoc eyes his Führer uncertainly, but says, "All right, sir, I'll be waiting here at the bottom of the stairs for you," he cocks his gun and clicks his heels together before slipping a cigarette between his teeth and gesturing for other guards to exit their vehicles. "Just pick her up, Führer."

Roy nods and continues his climb up the stairs. "I'm just going to pick her up," he tells himself.

(He was only supposed to pick her up.)

He raps on her door once, twice, three times. He waits patiently for a few minutes with the heat of the summer sun bearing down on him and his new, star-studded military jacket. He wants to be in her apartment, where he can hear the A/C running through her thick front door. He wipes the sweat away that's forming on his forehead with the back of his hand. "Colonel?" He calls. Havoc hears him and says, "She not there, sir?"

"She's here," Roy replies. He wraps his fingers around her doorknob. "I'm going inside." He presses onward into her apartment, shutting the door to muffle Havoc's protests. After depositing his heavy military jacket on one of Riza's small dining chairs, he circles around in her living room, thinking of all the ways he's going to tease her about how under-furnished it still is.

"Ah," he says, stretching his arms above his head to dry the sweat that had pooled underneath them. He's getting ready to call for his Colonel just before she wanders into the living room carrying a towel, and wearing nothing.

He watches her in bewildered awe for a moment with his hands still outstretched in the air. He's wondering how she hasn't noticed him, how she could have possibly missed the sound of someone entering her home. He's mildly concerned that she could be so unobservant in her own home that he hums, "Uh," loudly enough to catch her attention.

"F-Führer," she stammers at him, her face flushing. She tries to curl her arms over her breasts; she wraps the towel around her frame. "What are you doing in here, sir?"

"I'm here to pick you up," Roy says, finally lowering his arms. He lets his eyes flit over her form. Her towel is too short, he thinks.

"You're an hour early, sir," she chastises. Roy notices she hasn't moved, hasn't backed out of his view. "Who just lets themselves into someone else's home?"

"Who leaves their front door unlocked while they shower?" He challenges. "Frankly, Colonel, I'm a little alarmed."

Riza glowers at him. Water drips off her hair onto her shoulders. The towel stops only just above her thighs, Roy notices. Absolutely, entirely, aggravatingly too short, he affirms. He takes a step toward her.

"Führer," she reminds him, determined. She doesn't step away.

He knows he should back off but something about her, about Riza Hawkeye, about his sharpshooting bodyguard, about his Colonel standing wet and naked in front of him had flipped a switch in his brain.

(Or somewhere else.)

She needs to lock her door, Roy thinks. She's glaring at him, but her feet are planted firmly on her floor and he swears she's swaying toward him. Don't touch her, he tells himself, but there was something in the air that implored him to do just that. Something about her amber eyes framed by her soaking hair, something about that _Führer's_ jacket hanging on her chair pushes him to reach out and run his thumb over her lips as his other hand creeps up her neck. When she doesn't protest, when she so graciously gives him permission to keep going, he pulls her chin up and hovers his lips over hers.

He gives himself just a second to say, "Is this okay, Colonel?"

His Colonel shakes her head at him, but her hands migrate from her towel and her fingers clench his arms. She's pushing herself up on her toes, he realizes, trying to touch her lips to his.

He grins as he moves back.

"How long's it been?" He asks her.

"Führer," she reminds him again, less determined, probably hoping he'll make a rational decision for her. Her voice is feathery, though, and her eyelids are fluttering. He can feel her heart beating wildly against his fingertips.

"Years," he answers for her, almost in a growl, suddenly aware of the fact himself. "Is this okay, Colonel?" He asks again. "I won't kiss you until you tell me I can."

She answers him by yanking the collar of his shirt down and pressing her lips to his. He takes her face in his hands like he had wanted to when "Führer" was first tacked onto his name and he closes the gap between their bodies. She's quick to pull his tucked shirt from the hem of his slacks. She runs her hands under it and over his chest, her nails dragging lightly along the sensitive skin just above his belt. He groans into her shoulder.

"You have got to lock your door next time."

He whips her frustratingly short towel off and tosses it onto the floor. He slides his hand down her thigh, grips her there, then hoists her leg around his hip. She fumbles with his belt but he isn't patient enough to wait for her, not after that car ride, not after all those decades. He grips her wrist in one hand, and unclasps his belt with the other. He pushes her back into a wall and pins her with his forearms on either side of her head.

She's catching her breath when he presses himself into her.

She's catching her breath, but it gets caught in her throat when she feels him against her.

"Führer," she whimpers.

"Ah, don't call me that," he growls.

"It's what you are," she tells him as she nips at his bottom lip.

"It is," he agrees, fully aware of what she was trying to do to him. He grazes his fingers over her breasts and she inhales sharply. His palm skids across her stomach and wanders down, down, too far down, he realizes, when she arches her back and bucks into him.

She bites her lip but Roy hears it.

The most soft, most subtle moan.

"Ah," he hisses. He pulls his hand up and wraps her jaw in it. "I can't behave much longer, Colonel."

"You haven't behaved since you got here, sir," she says, a little breathless. Her voice wavers, her hands tug at the hem of his shirt.

"I'm being celebrated as the new Führer of this country in only a few hours," he rocks his hips into hers and watches her eyelids flicker. "How can I accept such a prestigious position when I know I've broken military law in the same day?"

"Then stop touching me, sir," she says, calling his bluff.

He laughs because she's the one faltering, she's the one who's chest is rising and falling with an erratic heartbeat. He takes advantage of her vulnerability and dips his head down to mumble against her shoulder, "We need to talk about the new cars you made me buy." She yanks at his shirt, ignoring his taunt, and he slips if off for her. Her hands wander around his torso, especially around the scar that lives on his side, and he kisses her neck, her cheek, her jaw line. "Also," he says. "I'm not convinced someone really lives here. I mean, who doesn't have a couch?"

She surprises him by hooking her fingers into his pants line, her hands so beautifully close. "Sir," she says. "I wasn't expecting to be here forever, and the palace is fully furnished." Her hands work at the buttons on his slacks and he grits his teeth as her knuckles ghost across the place he wants her most.

"Colonel," he warns. She drags her hands up to place them on either side his face. He sighs at her, effectively teased.

"You're a child, sir," she says. "And the cars are staying."

Two can play this game, he thinks.

He watches her as his hand treks downward again. He feels the slight arch of her back as he only barely runs a finger over that spot between her legs. When he slips one inside her and applies pressure with his thumb, however, his Colonel yelps. "Roy," she says, flinging her head back against the wall. Her pelvis instinctively cocks upward to give him a better angle. He presses further into her as her nails dig lines into his biceps.

After a few wonderful seconds of Roy enjoying the way her eyes were rolling back into her head, Riza pleads, "Roy."

Different than the yelp, he thinks. Different than the whimper.

His hand retreats and he realizes he's underestimated her when she braces against the wall and wraps her other leg around him. He's peeling his slacks off with fervor when he hears Havoc at the door.

"Führer?" He pounds his fist against the heavy wood. "Is everything all right in there? I heard some yelling." Roy leans his forehead against the wall and sighs. When he doesn't respond immediately, Havoc says, "I'm going to come in, sir!"

"Havoc, everything's fine!" Roy bites back at him through gritted teeth. Riza releases her grip on his waist and touches down on the floor in front of him. He holds her face in place with his hands so she won't leave and says, "The Colonel and I will be out shortly."

"All right, sir," Havoc says. Roy can hear his heels click against the concrete as he creates space between himself and the fraternizing couple. When he feels he's given Havoc enough time to descend the stairs, he summons strength he isn't sure he actually has and looks into Riza's eyes. Her body is tinted pink and she doesn't move her face from his hands as he leans in to kiss her mouth, her collar bone. She places a hand on his chest and pushes him back gently.

"Führer," she says. "I should go get dressed."

"I'm going to fire you soon," he says, his palms aching for her as she ducks out of his grasp. "Maybe tonight."

"Not tonight," she says as she reaches down for her towel and wraps it tightly around her body. "Maybe tomorrow." She smiles at him, and he has to consciously dig his heels into the floor to keep from lunging at her. He lets out a breath and runs his fingers through his hair. He grudgingly fastens his belt back onto his waist and shakes his pants out as he watches her back disappear behind her bedroom door.

"You know, I'm not done talking about the cars," he calls to her.

"Yes you are," she calls back.


	4. Day Four: Promise

"Promise you guys will come visit me?" Roy asks.

"Yes, sir," Riza huffs.

"Say it."

"I promise we'll come visit you, sir."

"There's no turning back now," Winry smiles as Riza sets the phone back on its receiver. "You should have known he'd be eager to see us."

"Roo loves to see me," Owen says, tugging at Riza's fingers. She gives him a soft smile and wraps her hand around his.

"Yes," she says.

"So," Winry clasps her hands together. "We have to be on our train by 2:00 and it's noon now." Riza steps out of the phone booth with Owen. He's practically vibrating in place with excitement as he says, "So we get to go see Roo right now?"

"Sure do," Winry tells him.

They make their way to Central headquarters under the weight of the blistering sun. Children are dousing the streets with buckets of water so they can play without burning their toes, and merchants are standing outside businesses handing out free cups of lemonade to anyone who beckons for them. Riza's hair is sticking to the back of her neck, mingling with her sweat, and she thinks absently about chopping it off again. She reaches a hand behind her head and touches the thick locks, suddenly grateful for the airy sundress Winry had insisted she wear for the day. Summer breezes in Central were rarely cool, but Riza still relishes the feeling of the fresh air bounding about around her bare shoulders, her legs.

"Mommy, can we get some ice cream?" Owen points his finger at a large cone-shaped sign that has "ICE CREAM" painted over it in bold pink letters.

"Ice cream!" His baby sister repeats from her perch on Winry's hip. She tosses a chubby hand in the sign's direction.

"I don't see why not," Winry tells them as she turns on her heel for the shop door. Riza's hand is abandoned by Owen's the second his eyes find the buckets of ice cream seated neatly under a plastic hood. He presses his face against the clear window and says, "I want chocolate."

"Chocolate it is," Winry says as she ruffles his hair. Riza retreats to a small table at the back of the room that's placed directly under an A/C vent. She leans back in her chair and lets the cold wash over her until it starts to spark goose bumps on her skin. She feels dangerously close to drifting off into sleep until Owen climbs into her lap and offers her a taste of his ice cream. She opens her mouth willingly and lets him spoon-feed her while he giggles about how silly it is. "It's like you're Annie and I'm Daddy," he laughs. It's all mild fun until Riza pretends he's given her a brain freeze and Owen chuckles so hard he almost tips off her thighs.

"Be careful, Owen," Winry laughs as she wipes ice cream from Annie's chin.

"Careful, Brother," Annie echoes her mom.

Riza's laugh is subsiding as Owen twists on her lap to face the table. He's scraping the last bit of his sweet treat out of his paper cup when Riza wraps her arms around his waist and rests her chin on his head. She's okay with never having children of her own, she thinks, when she's with Winry and her family. She'd spent so many days with them when she was reassigned to the east with Roy years prior that she and Winry had become close friends. Riza had been in the east for Owen's birth, for Annie's. She'd joined the Elric-Rockwell wedding as a bridesmaid, and when she and Roy moved back to Central after Roy's promotion to General, Winry took any and all opportunities she could to visit.

Riza smiles against Owen's hair and says, "I'm glad you guys are here." Owen pats her knee and says, "So are we."

Headquarters isn't far from the ice cream shop and Riza appreciates that. She feels recharged, ready to tackle the summer sun after her cold air bath and all the ice cream Owen had fed her. She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth to be sure there was none of the sticky stuff stuck to her and waits out the few minutes it takes for them to reach the steps leading to Central's doors. "Riza, can you carry me up?" Owen grips her arm and gives her a toothy grin, one he knows she can't resist because it reminds her of his father, and she lifts him up and fits him to her hip.

"You are a sucker for him, Riza," Winry laughs. Sure am, Riza thinks.

"Captain Hawkeye," A young MP salutes as he pulls a heavy door open for her when she reaches the top of the stairs. Riza and Owen salute him back.

"Captain Hawkeye is so cool," Owen says as he wiggles his feet against Riza's side and soaks up the atmosphere of the Central hub. "I can't wait to see General Roo."

"He can't wait to see you," Riza hears his voice and pivots around on her heel. He's standing behind her with his hands in his pockets and a smug smile decorating his face. She ignores the way his eyes drink her in. "You're getting big, Owen!"

"Roo!" Owen says, sliding down Riza's legs. Roy picks him up and slings him onto his shoulders the way he always has. Riza used to caution him against it, and Edward would whine, "That's my job, you dumbass." Owen always seemed to giggle the most when on top of the world, though, so eventually the protests stopped.

"What're you doing out of the office?" Winry teases him. "Always avoiding work when your Captain isn't here, huh?"

"Aw, don't call me out like that," he says, feigning nervousness. "My Captain is standing right next to you."

"It's no secret, sir," Riza says. She closes her eyes for a moment, moves her bangs from her face.

"Hey," Roy says, tipping his head to look up at Owen. "I heard you say my Captain was cool, and I was wondering if you think I'm cool too?"

"Hm," Owen hums. He places his cheek against the top of Roy's head and says, "She's cooler than you, Roo."

Riza and Winry laugh, and few nearby MPs snicker as well.

Roy puts on his best pout and says, "Why's that?"

Owen lifts his head to smile at Riza, and her heart skips a beat. He cups his hands over his mouth and whispers into Roy's ear, "Daddy says she's always packing."

This time it's Roy who laughs. "That she is. Although, there's not much room to hide a pistol in that dress."

"Inner thigh," Owen says, giving Riza a thumbs-up. Riza returns the gesture and nods back at him. "That's right," she says.

"If I didn't know any better, Owen, I'd say you know my girl better than I do," Roy says.

"Your girl?" Owen pulls back, raises an eyebrow. He sticks his thumb to his chest. "We shared ice cream."

"There's only room for one man in this heart of mine, General," Riza swallows a chuckle, Winry's snickering beside her.

"Hm. Then I guess I'll just have to...eliminate the competition," Roy says as he bends backward and loosens his grip on Owen's legs. Owen lets out one sharp shriek and grasps at Roy's shirt before Roy swiftly pulls himself upward again and Owen's laughing harder than he had in the ice cream shop. Riza's heart stalls in her chest for a moment as she watches her General do what he's done a thousand times before with Owen. She touches the holster at her thigh, then runs her hand up over her stomach to her chest.

She's aching for something, she knows.

Her feelings dissipate as fast as they had come, however, when Roy says to her, "Thanks for keeping your promise, Captain."

He's aching too, she thinks.

Owen stretches his hands out towards his favorite Captain and Riza takes him from Roy eagerly. "To the office!" He says, pointing in a random direction that was definitely not where the office was located. Riza smooths his blonde hair out. "To the office," she says.

"Hey Roo," Owen coos from over Riza's shoulder. "She looks pretty in her dress, doesn't she?"

"Doesn't she," Roy repeats.


	5. Day Five: Letters

Hughes tells Roy about his letters every time he receives one, and Roy swallows his apathy like it's a pill that'll keep his heart beating. He never pretends to be particularly invested in the contents of the letters but he sits in the hot sands and listens to them anyway. It takes Hughes twenty minutes on average to ramble on about Gracia, and Roy's content to utilize the time to consider his surroundings, which are constantly changing as he and his men press deeper into Ishval.

"You never get any letters, Roy."

"I never write any letters, Maes."

"Yeah, why is that?"

"I don't have the right."

Roy tries to suffocate the disgust as it settles in his gut every night while he falls asleep atop a pile of charred bodies. He can't imagine being so taken over feathery letters when the stench of death hangs heavy in the air, yet he craves the distraction. He detests the way her face swims around in his mind when the hunger hits, and he's bruised himself pressing his palms into his eyes before. His hands have bled from how much he beats them into the dirt.

"Didn't you say you have a friend back in the countryside, Roy?"

"Her father was my alchemy master, Maes."

"So why don't they write to you?"

"I don't know."

Roy hopes for a letter from her. He wants her to rip him apart, he wants to feel her anger seeping from the corners of a page that's been littered with words from her gentle hand. As his fingers snap and the air ignites he's reminded that this power he has was a gift. He's nothing special, he's nothing and no one but a traitor to her and to his own ideals. Sometimes at night he swears he can feel her soft skin on his fingertips. He hears her breathe in his dreams.

"I wish you had just wrote to me," he tells her when she appears to him like a battered angel on the battlefield. His hands catch his face as he dry heaves into the blood-tinged sand below his feet.

"What was a letter going to do, Major?" She asks him. "I had to come here and take responsibility for the role I've played in the Hero of Ishval's body count."

Roy would rather her shoot him than look at him with her empty eyes. She sits across from him almost every night now, and his abhorrence for himself is festering with each flick of her finger against the trigger. He wants to crawl into the ground and rot with the bodies of the innocent Ishvalans he's slain in her name. He wants to writhe in his own flames. He wants to write letters to ghosts.

"That's the daughter of your master, Roy?"

"Yeah, Maes, that's her."

"Guess we know why she's not been writing you."

"Guess so."


	6. Day Six: LightDarkness

Roy was sure that one day darkness would swallow her whole. He watched as it tried, and he watched as she knelt before it. His chest ached when he laid eyes on her tired form, dusted with dirt and sagged down by the ink nestled into her back. Sagged down by the death that drenched his hands. Her eyes were cold, hard, and he stood in his place with his hands in fists and cursed himself for mingling with her. He watched those eyes widen, her lips pull down into a frown, and she never smiled anymore. The faded sounds of gunshots and the red blood turned brown against the sands had made sure of that. He had made sure of that, he thought.

Roy often thought back to summers at his master's home when she'd be back from months of study. Her autumns, winters, and springs were occupied by a boarding school that her father shipped her to so he could neglect parenting and focus his papers and books. As hard as Berthold Hawkeye tried, however, he was never able to rid his house of her for the warmest time of the year. Roy was grateful for that because it meant he wouldn't spend months studying alone and in silence. Her presence next to him on the porch, or couch, or floor was enough to fill his body with the fire he needed to continue on to the next page in one of his master's decrepit alchemy books.

She was a quiet girl, though. Words were rarely spoken between the two of them. Besides her father, he didn't know of her family. He wasn't sure if she had a favorite book or color, and he knew better than to ask. Sometimes he'd notice her flinch when he shifted positions next to her and so he adopted movements she'd be able to predict: slow tilts of his foot before moving his leg, a small raise of his elbow before pulling his arm up. He didn't want to scare her away. She had a light that trickled out from behind her eyes and into his whenever she looked at him. She had a curiosity that he could feel bearing into him when she peeked over his shoulder at texts she didn't understand. He asked her one day if she was interested in the science of alchemy. She winced at the question and her reply had been a soft toss of her head from left to right. He didn't press, didn't ask why for fear that she would leave him outside under the beat of the sun by himself.

Roy wasn't surprised when she maintained her light in the face of her father's leave. Roy wasn't surprised that she didn't bear a grudge against him for abandoning her for the academy, although he detested the choice himself. She blessed him with small smiles and gentle words at the foot of her father's grave in a such a Riza Hawkeye way, he thought. Pressing her kindness into him with giggles and making him think that maybe she could be the girl he came home to. He was wrong, though, and the warmth that crept into his chest was wiped away by the tip of her tattoo peering at him from the nape of her neck. "Mr. Mustang," she said, and it was the first time he'd heard the dark drip into her voice. "That dream…can I trust you with my back so that I can help it come true?"

"Mr. Mustang" was what she called him until his fingers found her hair and his tongue parted her lips. He traced the array he'd been agonizing over and she sighed into him as he gripped her breast. He was so unashamed of taking her in his late master's living room, of checking every whimper of "Roy" into his memory. But his master had made an alchemy text out of his own daughter and Roy thought it best to wipe respect off the map of his relationship with Berthold Hawkeye.

"Mr. Mustang," she said, dropping her blouse to lay bear the sins of her father. She looked broken, tasted like the animosity he felt bubbling in his gut.

"Roy," she moaned, her palms pressing her light into his chest. She felt like home, sounded like the beat of his heart.

He wasn't prepared for the screams that pierced the silence when he mutilated her. He'd heard her scream only once before when he was young, when she was still a child. His heart had fumbled at the sound, and he sprang from his perch on the steps of the stairs where he'd been studying. He scrambled around for her, searching with a nervous sweat making a home on his brow. He found her lying on the ground beneath a tree, cradling her bleeding head in her hands, and he was quick to whip his shirt off and press it gently to her wound. She'd curled her hand over his and whispered thanks at him.

"You have to be careful," he told her.

"I was trying to return a baby bird to its nest," she responded. She wound an arm around him and let him lead her to the porch steps where he finished wiping blood from her temple. "The head bleeds a lot even when the injury isn't severe," she told him. He nodded at her but continued dabbing at the tender flesh.

"Did you do it?" He asked. "Did you return the bird?"

"I didn't," she said. "It died when I fell and so I left it under the tree."

Roy watched her form quiver as she buried the baby bird that evening, under the light of sunset. It wouldn't be the last time he caught her scooping dirt over a corpse. It wouldn't be the last time he'd be rendered breathless by the nature of this girl who has every right to hate, but doesn't. Riza Hawkeye doesn't hate, and Roy thinks that somehow makes all he's done worse. He wishes he could be as she is, he wishes she could share her light with him instead of feeding off the darkness he wears like the military jacket that encapsulates his body.

"It's for an Ishvalan child. His body was abandoned on the side of the road," is what she said to him. Riza Hawkeye, the woman who doesn't hate. Roy watches her writhe under the weight of what she'd given him.

She found her way into his office some time later. She spoke to him in a tone that was very much not like the Riza Hawkeye he knew, and he thought that this may be his punishment. He'd immerse himself in her, he'd be forced to meet someone new; a distorted version of a girl he'd admired more than the alchemy she'd awarded him. He stood to her and wondered when he'd fallen so hard. Slowly, his weakness morphed into her. He couldn't tell if it was born from his guilt, or from the way she sewed his heart to hers, but he was so painfully aware of it. He kept himself two steps ahead of her at all times, where he belonged on their collective journey, though he was constantly stealing glances at her from over his shoulder. "Colonel" and "Lieutenant" abruptly replaced "Roy" and "Riza" and Roy was content with this torture. He assigned to her his back, and she accepted his flesh like it were her burden to bear.

Roy no longer had the luxury of thinking back to the past. The woman, his Lieutenant, was not a Riza Hawkeye he was allowed to be intimate with. Thoughts of sticky summers reading books, of amiable company, of the way her hips tipped into his on her old couch were not permitted between the two of them. They had secrets to carry, they had new lives to live that didn't involve the light that once passed from her eyes to his. Still, Roy caught glimpses of the Riza he'd been enthralled with before he demolished her: in her voice when she chastised him, in the compassion she shared with the Elric brothers. Relief was a welcome guest when she'd smile, because he'd think that maybe he hadn't wiped her clean. Maybe, because she's Riza Hawkeye and Riza Hawkeye does't hate, she'd somehow kept a sliver of her light. He likes to think so.

He's drunk when he tells her, when he says through the phone, "The funeral."

"What?" She asks. "It isn't safe for you to call me like this, sir."

"That's when I knew I loved you," he practically slurs into the mic. He hears her small gasp, then the receiver clicks off. He tries her again, and she picks up but answers with a taught, "Go home, sir, you're drunk."

"I'm sorry," he tells her. "I wish I had known better. I wish I had left you alone."

"Roy, not now," she pleads. Nostalgic, he thinks.

"If I could take it all back I would." He hears her sharp inhale through the line before he says, "I took something from you that I can never give back." The receiver clicks off again, and he doesn't dial a third time. He leans against the phone booth and catches his face in his hands. "Do you blame me?" He asks. "Do you blame me?"

Of course she doesn't, he knows. If there was no more light left in Riza Hawkeye then surely the world would have frozen over. Surely Roy would be dead, surely her finger would have slipped and he'd catch her bullet with his head. When she lay in front of him, her life seeping out of a wound in her neck, Roy saw the light. It was draining from her face so slow, so devastatingly slow, so agonizingly slow that he thought he was draining with it but it was there. Her light was there and he had to save it and so he trusted her, he did the only thing he could think of in the moment because she had trusted him and he owed her this much and more.

"You never took a thing from me," is what she would say to him later, when her wound had been covered by a thin layer of scar tissue but the ghost of it still coated his eyes. "You never took a thing from me, sir, and I never wish you had left me alone." It was such a comment, such a fleeting moment that Roy had reeled and wondered if he'd really heard it at all. He stopped, the tip of his pen waiting for him to finish his signature, and he sat back in his seat and eyed her without a word because people were around and he was not supposed to have words for her. So instead, he watched her shuffle around the office with stacks of papers in hand and he thought that she was stronger than him.

He was sure that he'd underestimated Riza Hawkeye's resilience, her altruism, when he assumed she would be corrupted by a darkness only he thought he had. "You're a good man, sir," was all that she said to him for the rest of that day, and he drank the words in like they were his lifeblood. Light or dark doesn't matter to Riza Hawkeye, to Riza Hawkeye there is only grey, and that's enough for Roy.

So he keeps pushing forward.


	7. Day Seven: Incendiary

There's a stillness that's marred by the snap of his fingers, by the harsh intake of her breath. She's writhing under his heat and he's creating invisible channels through which his flames can whip against her. He wants to close his eyes, but she doesn't deserve that. He deserves to watch her toes curl, to watch her shoulders arch as she rides the surges of pain.

"Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop," she's panting at him. "Burn it off, burn it _off_." He grabs his face in his hands and stares at the floor. His jaw's clenching, she's huffing out breaths too hard, _too hard_ , he thinks.

He whispers that he's sorry but she can't hear him over her the grind of her teeth against his sheets. Her hands are twisting into the pillows above her head. Her hands are twisting as she's sending muffled screams out into the quiet that are breaking him. He's crumbling and he tells her he has to stop.

He's dizzy, his ears are ringing, the room is wet with seared flesh. Everything's fuzzy, there's sweat dripping over his brow. He's watching her back rise and fall with her breath as her cries subside. _It's a_ _surface burn_ , he tells himself. _It's a surface burn, it's a surface burn, it's a surface burn._

Her blood trickles down from her wound and touches her breast and he's maddeningly close burning his eyes out of their sockets. He takes his transmutation gloves off his hands in a panicked fit. _I can't, I can't, I can't._ His pulse is pounding like a drum in his head and he has to brace himself against his bedroom wall to keep his knees from caving in. _No more, no more._

Her hands shake as she pulls his bedding out of her mouth. He's watching her face, watching her eyelids flutter and wondering how he could have stopped her soft eyes from hardening. She was a child, the daughter of his master and he'd distorted her senses; he mangled her body. He presses his palms over his ears and tries to smother Berthold's words.

 _"Roy…look after my daughter, look after my daughter, lookaftermydaughterlookaftermydaughterlookaftermydaug-"_

She cuts him off with, "Mr. Mustang," and he can feel her voice scrape against her throat. He knows, _he knows_ she's burning. He doesn't respond at first, he only pulls his hands back and digs his nails into the drywall until she coughs and he can see tears forming under her cheek. He leaps for her, kneels beside her, and pulls a lukewarm towel out of a bucket of water by his bedside that he runs over her singed skin. She hisses through gritted teeth, her back instinctively pulling away from his touch.

He's wiping the tears from her eyes, staining his towel with her blood, and he sees the bleak landscape of the civil war in her features. He sees the dark bodies lying stark against the white sands. He whispers to her that he's sorry, he's sorry, he's _so sorry._

 _I'm a failure_.

He's burying his face into the mattress. He's touching her, he has a hand on her back and a hand on her face. _Barely 20, she's barely 20_. He can feel her skin bubbling up underneath his fingertips. _What have I done?_

"What have I done?" He stutters through a wave of guilt. It takes his breath and steals it for the air around him; the air that's tinged with her flesh.

"I like it better this way," she rasps. "I like it better this way, Mr. Mustang."

Tears play on the corners of his vision and he doesn't look at her as she starts to run her fingers through his hair. Her hands are calloused, he realizes, but she's so _gentle_ and he's saying he's sorry again but he's spitting the words out through sobs.

"I like it better this way," she assures him. "I like it better."


End file.
